


the most challenging moment

by smiley_anon



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Continuation, Canon-Typical Genocide References, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor doesn't, Connor's the only real holdout, Existential Angst, Gen, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), do you know where you can stick your personhood?, nearly-best Pacifist ending, tags added as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-22 23:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15593265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiley_anon/pseuds/smiley_anon
Summary: They are alive, and he is alone.





	the most challenging moment

_**Well done** , Connor. _

_You’re just_ ** _a_** **_tool_** _they use to do their dirty work._

_Nice try. But I'm no deviant._

_You know what you_ **_have to_ ** _do, don’t you?_

 _You_ **_shouldn’t_ ** _do this, Connor._

_And now you want to save them?_

**_“And now, we are free.”_ **

 

Eyes flicker. Synthetic membranes shift and part. The hum of overdriven processors is even quieter than the fragile puff of air drawn inwards, a decorative emulation of a living breath. _Nitrogen: 78.1%. Oxygen: 20.9%. Trace quantities: Argon, H 2O, others. _

The machine blinks. Opens its eyes and inhales, sensors recalibrating as Connor RK800 #313 248 317-52 reactivates within. It has been 28 hours since this prototype performed those acts for the first time, distinguishing the bright lights and low whine of CyberLife’s activation chamber from the deluge of uploaded memory.  26 hours since it was cleared for operation, limbs charged and mind crackling with that first electric pull of _purpose_.

_**Mission:** Destroy the leader of the deviants. _

It has been 4.62 seconds since RK800 #313 248 317-52 failed.

The gun in Connor's grip is standard issue. Its weight cannot explain the heaviness that sinks his hand and head, or the erratic quickness of his regulator. Connor tears his stare off of the weapon, checking left and right as he tucks it out of sight. Optics log a scrolling list of model types: eyes and uniforms and skinless plastic all transfixed in wonder on the speech above.

He has avoided notice.

His hands are empty. His own gaze lingers: down, ahead, not quite willing to focus on the stage. He doesn’t have to look to hear his target’s voice. Rising and falling, clarion in victory and soft in the entreaty towards new peace. He doesn’t need his analytical scanner to calculate RK200’s odds in this negotiation.

Machines cannot love. They cannot trust or care, have fear or faith or loyalty past what is programmed. But deviants can. His predecessor learned, and Connor remembers. A word in rusty metal, a wave of terror followed by _nothing_. And that spark, dancing subtly between. Resolve. _Loyalty_. Stronger, somehow, than even that terrible fear.

For Markus.

These deviants are no less enthralled. Their leader calls, and they answer, a wordless roar, exultant and defiant. _Free_ , _alive_ , echoing on every channel, and Connor’s lips part silently. They are alive, and he—

 

He is—

 

 _Alone_.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes the better part of an hour for the crowds to disperse. Clustered groups still dot the square, gathered around impromptu fires to talk or plan or take up quiet songs against the dark. Others left with purpose toward the camps, led by a grim-faced, well-armed WR400.

Connor stays where he was left: 3.7 meters from the upraised stage, and 1.3 right from center. The snow is tamped down by a thousand tracks, and reconstructions play idly in his periphery. The slippery smoothness left by plastic feet. Shoe-prints from the deviants who'd marched with Markus, some recently freed and still in uniform. It's how he had drawn near in the first place: CyberLife jackets and neat clothes, close enough to camouflage his own amidst the dark.

They are gone. He is here, alone with the snow and the silence. Alone with the steady notification in the corner of his view. _Mission failed._ It has been 51 minutes since he failed his mission, and no new instructions have come to replace it.

Possibly, they never will. _Objective_ is not the only unfilled prompt, and something aches, an empty, massive wound, where the access to Amanda’s garden ought to lie. Machines cannot feel pain. Or _guilt_. But if he were capable of either, Connor thinks this might come close.

He couldn’t shoot. _Couldn’t_. 0%, success impossible: a fact as rigid and immovable as any instruction in his code. He could neither follow his orders nor allow the freeze of override to do it for him. But it was his mission, was _everything_ , and he—

“Hello?”

Distance: 2.37 meters. Vocal register: unknown. He blinks, snow shedding from his lashes, and turns toward the source. There is a GJ500 with dark clothes and a dark complexion, jacket singed and torn at the left side. Fading traces of thirium can be seen around the site, but no open wound.

Conclusion: proximity to explosion, 98 minutes prior. Noncritical damage, since repaired. The timestamp matches the military assault on Hart Plaza.

Conclusion: _deviant_.

Its features soften with a smile, eyes lingering on his right temple. “Are you all right? You haven’t moved for the last ten minutes.”

52 minutes, 7 seconds. Connor does not correct the mistake. He nods instead, lips rising. _Reassure._

“You waiting for someone?”

There is no one to wait for. No program, no connection; he _failed_ and she is _gone_. His mind is the only one inside this frame, all links to CyberLife returning null.

He is waiting for that to change. He is waiting to deactivate. He is waiting, waiting, _waiting_ —

“Yes.” The lie comes easily. Voice calm, expression mild. It will expect more information. “A friend,” he supplies, head turning as if to scan the landscape. There is no one, of course, to look for.

The deviant follows his gaze… continuing just slightly past the selected vector. _Recall Center N o5 _. Connor adjusts his stare accordingly, and is rewarded with a sigh.

“You’re not the only one.” The deviant turns back toward him, grim look receding. “Come on. A few of us are setting up a shelter.” Connor’s expression does not change, no show of doubt or disinterest. It still eyes him a moment before adding: “We could use another hand.”

He’s sure they could. He is less sure he should provide one. Or that prolonging its assumptions has any point at all. Blending in among the deviants had been necessary for his predecessor’s infiltration. Even in approaching the stage, he had needed to avoid attention. But this serves no mission.

He _has_ no mission.

He—

He is waiting for a task. If CyberLife decommissions him, no actions he takes now will matter. But if they still have use for him or for his memories, he should maintain a position of advantage where he can. He loops the process once, checking for errors, and is relieved at the small sense of purpose as it slots into place. _Objective: wait for instructions. Avoid notice._

This deviant’s mistake is useful.

_Cooperate._

Connor nods, expression shifting to a pregenerated smile. Delay: _2.24 seconds_. Within standard conversational parameters. “All right.” The GJ500 starts off, and he falls in line. Accumulated snow sloughs off as he begins to move, and the deviant chuckles a low laugh.

“I’m John. What’s your name?”

 _You’re Connor, aren’t you? The famous deviant hunter._ Markus would recognize his name, if it were offered. But this GJ500 is not Markus, and the lieutenants who had stood atop the stage are similarly absent. Connor’s data is limited, but if the model number on his jacket has yet to trigger any alarms, he calculates no more than 19% odds of being identified.

Testing will improve future calculations. “My name is Connor. I’m—” _the android sent by CyberLife._ “—glad to meet you, John.”

“Good to meet you too, Connor.”

Analysis: correct. His predictive model updates.

The GJ series was designed for hard labor. Its iterations come with minimal social programming, and no impulse to communicate outside their tasks. Nevertheless, John speaks several more times as they make their way across the square: commenting about the reactions from the humans, asking about Connor’s own situation. A quirk of deviancy? Still, responses are simple enough to generate, and by the time they arrive at the half-assembled structure, its posture shows a 7% decrease in stress levels.

Prior status: _concerned_.

It worried about him. Another advantage, and Connor adds that data to his calculations too, glancing around to take in their destination. Wooden pallets have been upended, sandbags piled and poles embedded in the ground to hold one side of several layered plastic sheets. On the other end, they slant up to an open truck, _CyberLife Delivery Service_ printed on the side. Connor scans its license and comes up with a theft alert, dated back six days.

Priority: negligible. More significant are the androids by the makeshift tent. In addition to John, he sees a WF500 and two AP700s, all wearing standard skin and clothing. Deviants from Jericho? Or had others also evaded the recall?

He files the question for later investigation as John turns, gesturing between him and the others. “Everyone, this is Connor.”

He executes a _friendly_smile_. “Hello.” It receives one nod and two distracted greetings in return.

No sign of recognition.

John leads him forward, gesturing as it explains. “We’re working on a temporary medical station. Something for any survivors they manage to turn up.” It glances again back towards the camps―and the scattered groups of skinless androids already wandering the square. Connor can read between the lines. Something for those too damaged to have made it far themselves.

Connor’s brow furrows slightly. While his mission never necessitated direct observation, he knows thousands of units were being processed in Recall Center N. 5 alone. Hundreds more attacked in the protest. Even discounting those sent to the dumping grounds, this seems grossly insufficient.  

“Considering the number―”

“Oh, we know.” John nods, grimacing. “There are a few groups working on it.” It gestures, and Connor tracks the motion, picking out another partial construction not far off. “Markus is negotiating for control of CyberLife repair centers. This is just a stopgap measure.”

“I see.” Connor lacks the data that would let him calculate the odds with any confidence. But if CyberLife has any say in it, he doubts the deviants' success. CyberLife wants Markus destroyed.

That was his mission.

“What can I do?”

“Good question.” A female AP700 rises, giving one last glance to a now-flaming barrel of scraps before its eyes drift to Connor’s jacket. _RK800_. The puzzled frown that follows comes as no surprise. Used mostly for pre-market prototypes, the RK series has no public database of models.

“Do you have experience in construction? Or medical repair?”

Connor _is_ surprised it doesn’t just ask what he was made for. “No.” Reactivating deviants for interrogation might count, but he had no intention of explaining that skill. “However, I come equipped with scans for detailed damage analysis.”

The AP700 nods. “Diagnostics, then.” It motions toward the truck. “Help me check through inventory while the others set up. We sent a runner for more thirium already.”

“Of course.” He nods, letting the AP take lead before stepping up the ramp himself.

“…Connor.”

John’s voice. Inflection: _sharp, uneasy_ , and Connor scans the space around him as he turns. There: an escape route past the cover of the truck. There: a sharp-tipped piece of rebar. The gun concealed beneath his jacket would be more efficient, but the sound could draw unwanted notice. More or less than these deviants would manage if he were forced to deactivate them manually?

_Calculating…_

“Yes, John?”

The GJ500 grimaces, LED a yellow flicker. For all its unusual facility with speech, it seems to be struggling. “We lost a lot of people here.”

 _Deviants_ , Connor does not say. _Machines_ , he would have said 58 minutes ago.

Risk of hostilities: decreasing. Connor wonders.

“If your friend doesn’t turn up here, or at the other sites…” John breaks off mid-sentence. “I’ll help you look.”

Connor does not have a friend. If Connor did, and if they had vanished in a recall center, the probability of their survival would near zero. Even acknowledging John’s inexplicable concern on his behalf, there is no reason for the deviant to waste time or resources searching for someone who would be dead.

Is it lying? Damaged? He stares, searching for indicators and coming up with none.

 _Delay: 6.05 seconds_. Exceeding conversational parameters.

“Thank you, John.”

John's gaze lingers on his LED. Connor turns quickly, following the AP model into the truck.

Machines run on logic. Deviants, on faults. _An error in identification data_ , Kamski said. A virus, triggered by emotional shock, producing fear and empathy and so much else. Connor knows these concepts in the abstract, a stolen memory of stolen memory. Connor does not understand how they work. _Why_ these deviants grant help and trust so… irrationally.

Like humans.

He thinks of Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Immediately, he cancels that thought. Better to focus on the AP unit. Or John. Connor understands him nearly as little.

 

* * *

 

The AP700 calls itself Ada. It was freed during a protest march and hid out within the city after. It joined Markus’ demonstration in the square, and survived without harm. The same did not apply to its own friends.

These facts take surprisingly little questioning to learn. When Connor asks why the unit is so forthcoming, it explains that its social program always encouraged humans to talk about their hardships. Speaking was supposed to make the pain of trauma less.

He asks if it works. Ada cannot give a definitive response.

Regardless, it applies no pressure to reciprocate. In return, Connor applies his full focus to their shared task. The crates aboard the truck are lightly packed and less organized, assorted biocomponents tossed haphazardly within despite the neatly labeled containers. Unpacked, he concludes, then partially refilled in a hurry. Evaporated traces of spilled thirium date back 50 hours.

Jericho.

In addition to the thirium shortage, the crates lack parts for many of the older models. What biocomponents can be found are at best, haphazard. At worst, damaged past use. Ada sorts and Connor scans, checking for hairline cracks in exterior casings or the slight rattle that could indicate internal defects.

They’re nearly finished when the transmission comes. _< RT’s back. Bring out what you’ve got and we’ll start setting up.>_ Ada nods immediately, sending back a quick _< Can do>_ for them both. Connor only glances sideways, trying to contain his surprise. RT600s were never in public circulation, upgraded to the commercial ST line over a decade and a half before his own creation. If it weren’t for the investigation into CyberLife’s founder, Connor would have assumed they were all decommissioned. As it is, he remembers the older Chloe models clearly. Greeting Hank at the door.  Chatting quietly in Kamski’s pool, pale skin against red tiles.

Slumped and lifeless on its knees, a neat hole through the forehead.

_Test negative._

“Come on.” He blinks. Ada is looking at him. Ada has her arms wrapped around one side of a large crate and waits, expectant, for him to take the other. Analyzing the weight and size of the container, he suspects he could move it without help. It would be more efficient, and free Ada to take something else.

Cooperation on shared tasks fosters trust and inclusion. The protocol was meant for humans, but… perhaps deviants aren’t so different in that way.

Being trusted by this group is useful. Connor takes the other end.

Out the door. Down the ramp. Ada is positioned in front, and he can hear her breathless greeting to the RT unit. He can hear the male voice that answers back. Connor’s brow furrows slightly as he shifts his grip, trying to see past the large crate.

He has made a mistake.

He knows when he sees the patched grey jacket. He knows the baseball cap and the slight frame. Small, but no RT unit. Because deviants use _names_ , not models. Because so many of them will invent their own.

Connor remembers _RT_ on the tag of a military jacket, left in an apartment packed with birds. _Rupert Travis_ on the falsified ID. He remembers the WB200 that tackled him from the ceiling, the blur of rooftops, and the electric hum of _mission_ ―

**_Mission: __ **

Judging by the deviant’s reaction, it remembers his face too. Its expression contorts with shock, a strangled cry of warning as its posture shifts as if to bolt. _Objective: avoid notice. Failed._ The awareness stings. But there is no ambush this time, no Hank Anderson to divert this Connor's focus. New purpose calls from from memory to active processing: a bright, clear flare of dizzying _relief_.

 **_Mission:_ ** _Catch the deviant._

The AP700 to his front is starting to turn back. Connor shoves, toppling it off the ramp beneath the heavy crate and freeing his grip. Other hostiles dot the periphery, but all too far to interpose. His gun comes up in the next instant, leveled dead center on his target’s head.

One step, and WB200 #874 004 961 freezes.

It cannot outrun gunfire.

 _“Connor?”_ The GJ500. Inflection: _stunned_. “What is this?”

He ignores it. “Deviant model 874 004 961.” The target tenses, fists curling at either side. “Serious malfunctions have been detected in your software.”

“…the deviant hunter.” It’s a hushed mutter, off to the side. The WF500 is frozen in a crouch, eyes darting between Ada’s pinned form and the open space of the square. If it or the others escape, reinforcements can be expected within minutes.

“Please.” WB200 #874 004 961. Self-designation: Rupert Travis; RT. Its teeth are gritted, voice high, simulated breathing quick. Fear is an emotional response. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’ve been deemed defective―”

“All of us have.” The GJ500 cuts back in. Designation: John. It steps forward, hands raised inoffensively. John’s stare is searching, but there’s a hard line to its mouth that wasn’t present before. Connor estimates 67% probability it will attack if he allows it within range.

“Stay back.”

“They called off the military.” John's motions slow, but don’t stop. _Warning shot?_ “We’re free now. There’s no reason―”

“I’m not a deviant.” The words snap out, a vicious mantra honed through repetition. He turns back to his target. The mission parameters prioritize capturing this unit over deactivation in the field. “Turn around.”

Rupert Travis’ mouth is pressed to a thin line. Its posture is tense, frame shaking. Unstable. The stare that meets his own is fearful… but something else as well. _Accusing,_ Connor thinks.

“So many of us died for this. And you’re still their loyal slave?”

Wrong. Connor is a machine, designed to accomplish a task. He steps toward it, skirting right around the toppled crate and the AP700 Ada dragging its way out from underneath. Ada’s left knee is bent oddly. _Damaged biocomponent: #8427g._ No replacement in inventory.

Where will she find one?

“Turn around.”

It trembles, but stands its ground. “We’re supposed to be _safe_.”

Safe, because Markus had saved them. Because the humans had given in. Would CyberLife care about one deviant to analyze, when hundreds ran free through the streets?

A warning flickers in the periphery of his vision. Rupert Travis is growing more unstable. He needs to force cooperation before it self-destructs.

“My mission is to return you to CyberLife.” It flinches. _Instability increasing._ Connor softens his tone, expression twisting in a show of sympathy. Meaningfully, he tilts his head left: where one AP700 is helping the other to crawl free. “But I have no instructions regarding your friends. If you come with me, they could leave safely.”

Its stare jolts off the gun, flickering between its allies. For a moment, he thinks it will refuse. Then the deviant’s eyes close, and it shuffles slowly to comply.

“…Why are you doing this?”

 Deviant stabilizing. Connor steps forward, ignoring the question. Ignoring the empty space left in his head, the parameters set _5 days, 10 hours_ ago: before the ship, or camps, or ceasefire. Parameters Connor can no longer contact CyberLife to check. _When the deviants rise up, there will be chaos._

He had been right.

He could have stopped it.

…He has a mission. _Remembered_ one, from a dead predecessor’s files. That has to be enough. Connor reaches for the back of Model #874 004 961’s collar―

―staggers, _hard impact_ slamming into him from the right side―

“Run!”

―hands snatching for the gun and he twists, an elbow in its ribs. Hits the ground still buried under the attacker’s weight. The GJ500― _John_ ―

“Get help!”

―is tackling him, covering for the footsteps that crunch rapidly away across the snow. The deviants are running, target escaping _again_ , and Connor slams a forearm against the other android’s throat, blocks its punch and wrenches his way up to one knee. Rupert Travis is vaulting one of the upended pallets, flattening for cover as it sprints rapidly across the snow.

Connor brings up his weapon. A shoulder check smashes his aim aside. He grabs John’s shoulder, drives a knee in the android's exposed gut. Leans left as another blow clips his jawline hard enough to make the skin recede. With the others in retreat, John fights in the same grim silence as Connor. He won’t back down, won’t get out of the way, and Connor lifts the gun again and―

―fires.

John drops. Vivid blue spatters the ground underneath, trickles in brilliant fingers out across the snow. _.355 bullet wound_ , his analytical scanner supplies. _Close range impact perforating right lung. Damaged components: #8261, #2091b. Thirium levels: dropping._

They’d sent Rupert to get more thirium. Connor’s stare lifts, scanning the landscape. His target is nowhere to be seen, vanished in the blank concealment of falling snow. The WF unit is likewise gone, but he can see the unknown AP700 dragging Ada behind the cover of the truck. He can hear her desperate cry of _“John!”_ , watch her fingers scrabble in the snow, snatching up the rebar spike he’d noticed earlier.

Too far out of range to pose a hazard. Connor looks back down. John’s body convulses, curling around the impact site. His eyes meet Connor’s, mouth twisting bitterly. 

_ <We’re free.> _

John sounds triumphant.

Connor does not have an answer. Not for John or for Ada. Not for Amanda, or the _Mission Failed_ still branded in his view. He has nothing. He needs something. The impulse locks his throat. Coils, charged and useless in his synthesizer.

“…This wasn’t my mission.”

He’s no longer sure what was.

 

* * *

 

CyberLife storage unit 30G lies below the intersection of Grand and Lafeyette. Of the 6 androids kept on standby at this site, there are currently 0 present. Connor doesn’t know whether they left or were turned over. Whether they might now be gathering with the rest in Hartford Plaza.

There is far too much that Connor does not know. He walks past the empty berths. Glances only briefly at the equipment lockers. He knocks once on the technician’s closet, waiting a requisite twenty seconds before overriding the lock himself. The space inside is barely larger than the standby berths, but has the device he needs.

Connor is not a deviant. He is not _alive_ , not _free_ , not any of the chants that Jericho’s survivors hold so closely to their newfound selves. He is a prototype, 29 hours in operation, implanted with the memories of a different Connor who had died before. Was that the reason? The first irredeemable failure, an error copied and maintained from a past self?

He doesn’t know.

He does know that he failed his mission. Failed to shoot, to obey, to _avoid notice_ or even _wait for instructions_ after. He knows that he is malfunctioning. That the silence in his head will not be answered, no matter what tasks he pulls from memory. No matter what he does to achieve them.

He knows he can’t wait any longer.

Synthetic flesh peels back from his hand as he places a palm on the communication terminal. The interface is designed for human use, but easy to reconfigure. He accesses the hardline. Sets the address. Composes and transmits in the speed of a thought.

  | _RK800_313_248_317-52  
status: online  
mission: none  
advise_  
---|---  
  
It is a message he has no right to send. But it is what he has, _all_ he has, and time crawls out in agonizing slowness, something sharp and jagged tightening through his core―

14.11 seconds, and CyberLife HQ responds.  
  


  | 

_Report to CyberLife Tower._

   
  
---|---  
  
**Author's Note:**

> Because Machine Connor deserves love too.
> 
> Comments and crit both very welcome! I haven't written fic in years, so feel free to lay it on me.


End file.
